La Vie En Rose
by KressAria
Summary: At one point, she believed that with enough faith and trust, her fairy tale would one day become reality. To this day and with the camaraderie of her most loyal friend, she still believes. StingxOC; Slight CanaxOC (different OC); Drabble Series.
1. 1) Fairy

**AN: I've been working on this story for quite awhile (inspired by the challenge '50 Fairy Tale Themes' by Ani-chan found on Lunaescence), and it's just now that I've decided to work up the courage and post it here! Updates may be slow , but they definitely will happen. Enjoy!**

 **Does anyone know if indenting paragraphs is possible, and if so, how? Thank you.**

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 **1.) Fairy**

 _ **Setting: Year X784; Shirotsume Town; 12 year old Sting**_

Digging his heels into the ground, Sting steadies the wavering stance of his legs, his knees buckling under the pressure of bruises burning his skin and the heavy thrusts of air drowning his throat and the vestiges of his rationality urging him to stand down - though the volition of his will hastily neglects the impediments of his body and the fine press of fur against his ankles encourages him to stay strong. So he shifts closer to his small companion, fettering his breath as if the restraint of pressure fortifies the defenses of his body, and with a snapped grit of his teeth, he prepares his damaged stature for the assault of crested marines - despite the heavy lull pulling his arms to his sides and the flickering light of his remaining magic retreating within the confinements of his fingertips.

 _He is stronger than this,_ he repeats to himself, hoping the incantation carries the innate aptitude of revitalization. _He is stronger than some dumb fish with wings._

But he cannot redeem the quavering iridescence cloaked inside the palm of his hand or disregard the heralding barrage of scratches and bites with a simple turn of his head and a flick of his wrist. Before his breath recovers from short vacillations, the shortness of air obfuscates his sentience grudgingly swiveling between consciousness and respite. Though his endeavor proves chivalrous, he cannot conjure the strength to focus his eyes upon his many adversaries or enforce the stamina undulating within his core. And he internally reprimands the part of him that displays such weakness to the public.

The coarse stratum of soil tempts him more than the advocating mewls of the maroon feline, and he envisions the mollifying touch of land against his back - though he should direct his eyes upon the source interrupting his fantasy. Even so, Sting would much rather feel dirt clinging to the fabrics of his clothes and pebbles melding with his mess of blond hair and wind pacifying his vast hysteria. He could practically savor the warm incandescence fluttering across his skin and scrutinize the dusts of glitter traversing the horde of winged piranhas.

Navy blue pupils widen, blinking with a pristine mien only a child of his age can achieve, and dart to the radiant silhouette emanating the brilliant, powdered glow. His legs finally give in, and he falls to the ground, Lector plopping down at his side - paws still grasping a jagged tree branch he titled as an artificial wooden blade. Sting's eyes remain locked on the figure's lithe gait and the spectral dust flitting about with each step advancing towards him. From the slender physique and brazen posture, he concludes that this entity is otherworldly - that the mystical spark and graceful maneuvers are utterly and absolutely surreal - and that this creature cannot possibly be human. Finalizing his accusation with a terse nod of his head, he tailors his lips to form words somehow coherent through convulsing breaths and an oscillating heartbeat.

"You're a fairy, aren't you?"


	2. 2) Hero

**AN: Hello, friends! Here's chapter 2. I had fun writing this chapter cuz my and fellow fanfic writer MoonlitSolstice's OCs are introduced. Hopefully, this is better than chapter one . Though it's not at all necessary, please review. They make me happy ;w;**

 **Enjoy!**

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 **2.) Hero**

He was used to seclusion - to the pointed stares of passerbies traversing his path and the subtle, extra footstep taken to increase distance between him and the petulant remarks hardly held above a whisper and the seemingly bearable prospect of fear trotting beside him, as if one glance, word, or brush of his presence inflicted an epidemic of devastation and isolation. With his trusted feline companion at his side, the feasibility of such reclusiveness never bothered him in the slightest - nor did the aspiration of a soft-skinned touch ever cross his mind. As the reputable slayer of the White Dragon, Sting had labeled these normalities as unnecessary, and he had quickly adapted to the privation of a human face unadorned with malice or a velvet-like contact embracing his skin.

He was used to seclusion.

And in this moment - warm, foreign fingertips pinching heavy portions of his cheeks, challenging the limits of the distance they dare reach and savoring the taut bulge of navy blue irises - he even preferred it.

"Aaww! You're such a cute little boy!" The young woman (of which he titled a combatant of the winged piranha invasion) chimes, a chain of light giggles dancing in rhythm with her words. She turns to the standing figure several feet away from her, neck craning like an owl as she steadies her crouching legs and adjusts her hold of his face. As her ally takes time to assess the azure-dusted winged creatures - somehow imprisoned against the cracked pavement of concrete - she wastes no consideration claiming his attention. "Hey, Ludger, where do you think this little one goes?"

"In his house, probably." The raven haired scholar gives her a knowing smile, enduring the jutted pout of her bottom lip, deciphering the exaggerated contortions of her features as an empty threat.

With a huff of breath, she turns back to him, eyes narrowing as the burning sensation on his cheeks expand. "Hmph. Could you believe that, little one? He doesn't mind how you're out here all alone. The nerve, am I right?"

"He's not alone. His cat is right behind him."

As if this served as a cue - a signal for his well-befitting introduction - the maroon cat emerges from his hiding spot strategically positioned behind Sting's back, clutching a sturdy tree branch as a precaution towards the two strangers. Feline eyes immediately encounter crimson ones, and for one tormenting moment, the woman's grip tightens, sending unyielding jolts of agony through his face, and Sting hopes - by some deity granting miracles and answering prayers - that this fairy will show mercy on his boyish visage and liberate the flesh that has by now swollen and reddened.

He does not expect, however, the sudden shrill of her voice or her companion's mischievous - verging on sadistic - laughter seconds beforehand or her jerked retaliations contradicting her once previous elegance as she cringes away from Lector and him. But relief tempts his lips into a smile, the burning inflammation dissipating into a warmth, and he thanks his friend with a gracious smile before interrogating the girl with a frown.

"Well? Are you a fairy?" He prods, legs crossed as he leans forward, expecting a viable explanation for her spectral display. Pivoting his head into his shoulder, he indignantly mutters - more to himself than the female in front of him. "I'm not little."

"Is that what they're calling us? It makes sense. Definitely shorter than 'member of Fairy Tail.' Plus, it has a nice ring to it," she muses, pointer finger tapping the cusp of her chin, a thoughtful smile spreading.

In her thought, she fails to notice his deepening gaze and analysis of her once graceful maneuvers and festival of azure glitter, and he endeavors to contrive a solution as to how this woman held such power in her arsenal - how she carried the capability of trouncing an army of flying savages without even a nod of acknowledgement directed at her adversaries nor a drop of sweat trickling down her pores - and (despite these accomplishments) by some transgression of character he simply could not fathom, she regarded a cat as an absolute terror.

"You're, what, twelve? And you held your own against a swarm of winged piranhas, you little hero!"

Sting finds sudden interest in the mounds of dirt forming near the soles of his shoes, eyeing his furred comrade's questioning gaze, and returning it with an incoherent grunt.

She was strong. And yet, here she was calling _him_ a hero.


End file.
